


Lessons

by BrighteyedJill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Communication Failure, Dom/sub, Jealousy, M/M, Suspicions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-23 05:19:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock stumbles across evidence that makes him doubt John’s loyalty as his dom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [noirrosaleen](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=noirrosaleen).



“Are you saying I’m wrong?” Sherlock straightened to his full height and tilted his chin up to put as much distance as possible between himself and Mycroft.

“No, brother dear. I wouldn’t dream of questioning one of your conclusions.” Mycroft settled fractionally against the armchair he’d occupied since Sherlock had burst into his study, and rotated his tea cup a precise ninety degrees in its saucer.

“And yet you don’t seem at all alarmed.”

“No.” Mycroft punctuated the word with a sip of tea.

“You’re going to sit there and finish your tea, like the useless lump of furniture you are. You’re going to _do nothing_?”

“Temper, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s calm nettled Sherlock into motion. 

Sherlock paced the length of the study, heedless of playing into Mycroft’s assessment of his emotional state. “It’s typical. Absolutely typical. You’ve never formed a real attachment to anything in your life, except perhaps your dessert fork.” He stopped in front of his brother, who still regarded him coolly. “You could never sit here so calmly if you felt for him half of what I feel for John, you cold—“

“Sit. Down.” The snap in Mycroft’s voice cut off anything further Sherlock might say. 

Sherlock sat.

Mycroft deposited his cup and saucer on the side table, settled his hands on his knees, and regarded Sherlock. “As you so shrewdly observed, I’m not overly concerned by the accusations you’ve brought me.”

“I’d go so far as to say you’re not the least bit concerned.”

“Have you thought to ask yourself why?”

“Either you believe them to be untrue, or you see no disadvantage to yourself should they prove to be true.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You’re forgetting a third possibility.”

“I forget nothing,” Sherlock snapped. When Mycroft simply continued to stare at him, Sherlock heaved an impatient sigh. “Very well. You may believe you have an alternate explanation for the evidence.”

“I’ve told you before that caring is not an advantage.” Mycroft managed to avoid the condescending manner that usually flavoured his lectures. Instead, his tone seemed to indicate a certain reluctance. “It can blind you to possibilities you’d prefer not to consider.”

“It’s not as if my judgement were impaired, Mycroft.”

“It is impaired, brother dear. You have freely admitted that your understanding of human behaviour, especially as concerns romantic relationships, is less than expert.”

“Perhaps in the general sense,” Sherlock conceded, “but I know John.”

“You do. I daresay you understand him better than I do.” Mycroft inclined his head slightly. “But you know yourself less well, I think.”

“Now you’re being absurd.”

Mycroft’s expression lengthened into a frown. “Why does John stay with you?” he asked.

Sherlock lifted his chin. “Because I’m brilliant.”

Mycroft’s frown deepened. “And will he stay with you if you cease being brilliant?”

“That’s not going to happen,” Sherlock snapped. He wouldn’t let it happen. His entire strategy for interacting with John was designed to prevent such a thing from happening. Still, Mycroft would not have raised the subject unless he had a point to make. “There’s no reason it should,” he ventured.

“What about when your annoying little habits outweigh your supposed brilliance?” Mycroft’s sober expression turned even more grim. “When solving the latest case is measured against the hundred little humiliations to which you subject him every time he follows you on a case? When he starts to weigh your clever tricks against the pain you cause him?”

“He won’t leave,” Sherlock said softly. He hadn’t done the precise calculations on the depreciation of his brilliance as an attractor for John over time, but he’d estimated a significant cushion in his worth to John. Given today’s events and Mycroft’s insinuations, however, perhaps he needed to revise his model. “I’ll just have to be more brilliant.”

“As if you could be.” Mycroft chuckled.

Sherlock couldn’t decide whether or not to be insulted. He stood and buttoned his jacket. “If you’re not going to take this seriously, I’ll deal with the situation on my own.” He turned his back on Mycroft and made for the door.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

Sherlock stopped in the act of reaching for the door handle, but didn’t turn back. “And why not?” he asked through his teeth.

“You don’t have all the facts.”

“And you do?” Sherlock whirled around to see Mycroft’s infuriating smirk. “Are you going to share them, or just sit there looking smug?”

“It almost sounds as if you didn’t _want_ me to tell you.”

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft rose and joined Sherlock in front of the door. “Gregory told me he planned to meet with John today, and he explained why.”

“Just because Lestrade has your blessing to—“

“Careful, Sherlock,” Mycroft said with a cautionary furrowing of his brows. “Non-monogamy is not a feature of our relationship.”

Mycroft seemed to be waiting for an apology, but Sherlock had no intention of providing one. “Well?” he prompted. 

“Gregory described to me the purpose of the meeting, and enumerated the details to my satisfaction. It violated none of the precepts we’d agreed on upon entering into our arrangement. On the contrary, I thought it could be very beneficial to engage in this sort of enrichment.”

Sherlock quickly parsed Mycroft’s words, looking for the inevitable hidden meaning. “Subbing for someone else, you mean.”

“Gregory only subs for me.”

“Then he _only_ had plain, boring, vanilla sex with someone else. With _my_ someone else. He has no right!”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s warning tone failed to arrest Sherlock’s momentum. 

“John took his clothes off. He was on the floor. He had marks on him.” As he ticked off the facts, Sherlock blinked hard to rid his mind of the images that came too easily. “All that evidence was plain to see when he came home. Don’t tell me you didn’t read the same on Lestrade.”

“Of course I did. But having additional evidence, I came to the correct conclusion, whereas your jealousy has driven you into wild speculation.”

“I don’t want Lestrade near John again.” Sherlock reached for the door, but turned back to favour Mycroft with his haughtiest expression. “Look to it.”

Mycroft slammed his hand against the door, rattling it in its frame. He leaned in to Sherlock, using his slight height advantage and harshest glare to pin Sherlock in place. “You are welcome to run your own relationship into the ground, if you wish, but you will not make demands of me and mine. Work out your issue with John, and leave Gregory out of it. I have always looked out for your well-being, and I assure you I’m acting in your best interest now.”

“I don’t need your help.” Sherlock stepped into Mycroft’s space, and Mycroft, miraculously, gave ground. “May I go now?”

Mycroft turned the handle and held the door open. As soon as Sherlock passed, he spoke again. “Sherlock. John won’t leave you. He loves you for more than your brilliance. You know that, don’t you?”

Without looking back, Sherlock buttoned his coat and drew his scarf tight around his neck. “I’ll make my own observations, brother dear. Good night.”  
\--

When Sherlock returned to Baker Street, he did not expect his traitorous partner to be ensconced in the sitting room, bold as you please, with a mug of coffee and his laptop. John generally understood social norms and regulations quite well, and he had to have gathered from Sherlock’s behaviour that afternoon that his betrayal had been uncovered. He should be either contrite or, if he expected to be able to talk his way out of trouble, defiant. Instead, he seemed the very picture of calm: the same steady John who stood beside Sherlock at crime scenes, or who lay beside him in bed.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock snapped.

“Waiting for you to come back.” John typed a few more words, then set aside his laptop. “You ran out of the flat like a madman. You’re angry.”

“Of course I’m angry, after what you’ve done.”

“You think I’ve broken our rules.” John crossed his arms over his chest.

“I don’t _think_. I _observe_. I’ve seen the evidence.”

Though this statement should have cowed John—he had years of experience with Sherlock’s ability to unravel deception, after all—instead, he merely frowned. “Really? Alright, detective. Lay out your case.”

Sherlock swirled out of the doorway to stand looming over John, for maximum effect. “You left the flat shortly after five, and told no one where you were going. You took the old case files from the kitchen that Lestrade’s been after me to return for a month, and didn’t bring them back. So, easy enough, going to see Lestrade. Not for dinner. You and Lestrade never have dinner; his eating schedule is too irregular to fit into your usual mealtimes. You didn’t meet him at the Yard; Broadway is under construction, and it’s rained all week, and you haven’t a spot of mud on your shoes. Not at the Yard, so not strictly a business call. You could have met at a pub, except the cuffs on your jumper haven’t been anywhere near a bar today. But Lestrade’s flat, ah yes, his children came for a visit last week and brought their dog. Lestrade’s not much of a housekeeper, still hair all over the furniture, and now all over your trousers. So, Lestrade’s flat. But why there? It’s hardly a convenient place for a social call. No, this was something private, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” John said. “Neither of us wanted to take this particular meeting in public.”

“Yes, you would want private for this, wouldn’t you? The same white dog hair that’s on the rug and the furniture has somehow made it into your hair. Not an effect that comes from usual furniture use. Therefore, you were lying on the floor or on the couch, I’d wager floor, since there’s also dirt ground into the knees of your trousers. Speaking of which, your trousers were perfectly pressed when you left the flat this morning. Now the wrinkle pattern shows they’ve been lying crumbled in a pile, again, probably on the floor. Same with your shirt. You’ve had your clothes off.” 

“Go on,” John said tightly. 

Sherlock reached down to snatch John’s hand out of his lap and hold it in his own. “Slight red marks on your hands. Light abrasions from handling something rough. I don’t think you were helping Lestrade haul bricks. I can’t tell for certain, but this might have been from handling leather, like a belt or a strap. More likely rope: no fibres left behind, though, so a high quality synthetic type.”

John was staring up at him with the same illuminated expression he often developed when Sherlock laid out his deductions at crime scenes, only now the effect was marred by his downturned mouth. “Sherlock, you are incredibly brilliant.” He pushed himself to his feet and looked up at Sherlock. “And so bloody stupid.”

“Am I?” Sherlock raised his chin. “Did you have sex with Lestrade, or just dominate him? What is it that I don’t provide that you need from him?” Sherlock hadn’t meant to say that last part. He clenched his jaw tight to prevent his traitorous tongue from any other unauthorised questions, and glared down at John, waiting for an answer.

John held his gaze, utterly calm. “Do you want me to tell you what happened?”

“Yes. I want to hear it from you.”

“Come here.” John held out his hands. “Please.” 

Haltingly, Sherlock took two steps to close the distance between them. John captured Sherlock’s hands and guided him to sit on the couch beside him. Though Sherlock tried to pull away, John didn’t let go of his hands. 

“You’ve been having a crap month. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how bored you’ve been. I wanted to surprise you with something nice. To do that, I needed to learn a few things. Luckily, we have a mutual friend with the experience I needed. Greg and I didn’t have sex. We met this afternoon for a demonstration.”

“A demonstration.” Sherlock felt John’s hands squeeze his. 

“When I was new in the scene, I had a mentor who introduced me to the tools of the trade, so to speak. Riding crop, paddle, hot wax, Wartenberg wheel. I didn’t try anything on a sub that I hadn’t experienced myself. I needed to know how it felt, so I could appreciate the limits. It’s still the same for me; if I’m going to try something new on you, I need to know how it feels.”

“You let your mentor use a riding crop on you?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Would you let me?”

“We can talk about that, if that’s something you want to try,” John said slowly. “Not when you’re angry.”

“Fine. So you subbed for Lestrade for _educational_ purposes.”

“No.” John took a deep breath. “Listen to what I’m telling you, Sherlock. There was no domming or subbing involved. He demonstrated a skill I’ve been wanting to learn. Just the same as if he’d shown me how to make that lasagne Mycroft’s always raving about.”

“Except presumably he’s not naked when he cooks lasagne.”

“I’ve never asked.” John’s mouth twitched in an attempt at a smile.

“What was so important that you had to learn it from him, not watch a video about it on YouTube?”

“It’s dangerous, and it takes a lot of skill. I needed to make sure I could do it right.” The smile grew. “Also, Lestrade let me borrow his very nice hemp rope.”

“Rope.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Yes.”

“To do what?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“I don’t guess.”

John leaned in close enough for Sherlock to feel his body heat. “While you were out accusing me of infidelity, I was installing weight-bearing hooks in the ceiling in your bedroom. I planned to bind your arms first, wrists behind your back, then upper arms cinched against your chest for a solid suspension point. Then I’d attach a spreader bar to your ankles, fix your calves to your thighs and use each leg as a suspension point. I also learned a special rope harness for your waist, to make complete horizontal suspension relatively comfortable for an extended period. That way I could keep you there, tied and helpless, doing whatever I wanted to you. You’d be at the perfect height for me to use in so many ways.”

“Oh.” Sherlock swallowed hard.

“Listen to me, Sherlock.” John gripped Sherlock by the shoulders. “This type of bondage has risks. I only want to do this if you trust me completely. This isn’t about me taking something you don’t want to give.”

“I know that.” Sherlock averted his gaze to the coffee table. He felt his face heating. Now that John had explained his intentions, he could see the obvious flaw in his deductions—the flaw Mycroft had tried so pompously to point out to him. John wouldn’t betray Sherlock. Unlikely as it seemed, he’d arranged his life to mesh with Sherlock’s, as Sherlock had arranged his to accommodate John. Even if Sherlock had been less than brilliant in the past weeks, Sherlock still had enough appeal to prevent John’s interest from straying. He’d done the calculations himself; he shouldn’t have doubted them. “I do.”

“I’d never do that to you, Sherlock.”

“I know.”

“Clearly you don’t.” John tipped Sherlock’s chin up to look him in the eye. “This dynamic is not about me having all the power. If both of us don’t feel safe, it won’t work.”

Sherlock drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “I... I do feel safe with you. I do trust you, John.”

John waited, well accustomed to the signs of Sherlock working through a problem. 

At last, Sherlock said, “As much as I’m loathe to credit my brother with any wisdom, he did point out today that my affection for you might have impeded by ability to be objective about today’s observations.”

“We all make mistakes. Goodness knows that of the two of us, I’ve bollixed up more deductions .”

Sherlock chuckled his agreement.

“Listen, this thing with Lestrade. If you don’t want me to go to him for advice—“

“You learned this for me.”

John nodded. “You’ve been bored and irritable all week. I wanted to take you flying.”

“I should have realized.” Sherlock quickly reviewed the evidence in his head, re-assessing and re-cataloguing items in his mind palace. In retrospect, the matter seemed embarrassingly obvious. “I should have _observed_.”

“Not even you can know everything, Sherlock.” John leaned in to plant a kiss on Sherlock’s head. 

Before he could lean back, Sherlock captured him around the waist. “Please. Will you still take me?”

“Sherlock...” John studied his face carefully, and Sherlock tried to project his sincerity. “This isn’t something we do if either of us is angry.”

“I’m not angry.” 

“If you trust me to...” John shook his head. “If you trust me, full stop.”

“I do.” Even at his most angry, Sherlock never actually considered that John would deliberately hurt him. He slotted that realization into the appropriate room of his mind palace, and made a note to include it as evidence next time a problem of this nature arose. “And next time, I won’t forget that I do. Now please, John.” Sherlock unfolded himself from the couch and sank onto his knees. “Take me flying.”

**Author's Note:**

> [This](http://wiitwd.tumblr.com/post/3342387801/all-the-better-to-kiss-you-boy) is a close approximation of the position John wanted to try.


End file.
